


Late Night Blogging

by felixies



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixies/pseuds/felixies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."</p><p>"Nothing happens to me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Blogging

“Writing in a blog will help you let out all that anger and frustration. You don't have to make it public, just put it in writing, rather than keeping it all inside.” Your therapist's words ring in your mind as you stare at your laptop, a blank screen housing your own blog. It’s been a few days since your last therapy session and you have been forced to write at least three blog entries per week, as suggested by your therapist. Writing was never your thing. Sharing even the littlest work leaves you pale, knowing your intimate knowledge and emotions are out there for the world to see. “Well, she did say that it doesn’t have to be public. Here goes,” you hesitate. When you start typing you hear Sherlock walk over to his violin, tuning it.

“You keep switching tenses,” Sherlock comments. You look up at him peeved.

“I don't need your input,” you snipe.

“Well if you're going to at least publish this dribble, at least make it grammatically correct,” Sherlock snarks.

“It’s my blog. I can do whatever bloody thing I want with it! Don’t forget that you are staying here out of Molly's kind heart. I would easily kick you out if I could.”

“But you can’t so just go on. Type away. Don’t let me bother you.” Sherlock starts playing the violin. Although he has pissed you off, hearing him play relaxes you into the right mood to type. Hours go by. You do not notice your surroundings. Sherlock gets bored easily, so when he stops playing the violin, he moves on to watch the telly. He shouts at it as if the idiot box could hear him. He looks over your shoulder to see what you are writing, curious to see what is making you so engrossed to not notice him at all. He immediately gets to the blinking text cursor, wondering where is the rest of the text. As soon as his eyes meet yours he jumps back. 

“I told you not to read what I’m writing,” you say curtly.

“It’s your fault for making it so interesting. So,” Sherlock pries.

“So what?” you ask.

“So you and Moriarty?”

“It didn't last obviously. He found out about Molly through me. Ended as quickly as it started." Sherlock doesn’t answer and you close the laptop for the night.

The next evening, you walk into the den with a bottle of wine in tow. You grab your laptop and start typing again. Suddenly, you hear footsteps bound down the stairs and see Sherlock sit next to you. He doesn’t turn on the TV nor does he grab a book to read. He lies down, suddenly throwing his legs over your lap. Luckily, you move your laptop out of the way so that his legs cover you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask.

“Thinking,” Sherlock answers.

“I’m working, Holmes.”

“I won’t be moving anytime soon, so just lie your laptop on me.” 

You want to start a fight with him, but quickly abide. Hours go by before you close your laptop once again. As you stretch out the kinks in your neck, you look over at Sherlock fast asleep. “How long has he been like this?” you question. You gently lift his legs up so you can escape, placing a blanket over him. You can't help the smile appearing from how peaceful he is sleeping.

The next night, you are in your room sitting on your bed. You hear footsteps outside your door, but it quickly fades away. A minute later your door swings unabashedly open with Sherlock standing at the doorway. He walks in to sit next to you and starts reading whatever book is on your night table. You quickly set your laptop aside and look at Sherlock. “Why did you stop?” he asks.

“Why are you in my bedroom?”

“It’s a free country. I can come and go as I please,” Sherlock comments.

“It’s my bedroom, Holmes. Go on, explain,” you demand with crossed arms.

“Explain what?” Sherlock asks flatly.

“For the past few days every time I start writing you come around and stay for the entire time. Are you really that desperate to read what I write? It's not about you, so stop trying to look in,” you insist. 

Sherlock finally concedes, explaining, “John typed a lot when we lived in the flat together. He started it the same reason why you started your blog. You two have seen some stuff and need to get it out somehow. At first I got so annoyed by the constant clacking of the buttons. His typing is exponentially slower than yours. I didn’t like what he typed about me in his blog, but after a while, hearing the slow typing became relaxing. I’ve never been able to sleep well and hearing you type feels like home, as if he’s living here right now.”

You don’t know how to respond to such a confession, especially one that came out of this insufferable Sherlock. Before you could respond Sherlock apologizes, “It was rude of me to enter your bedroom without your consent. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He walks out of your room, leaving you so surprised and unable to comprehend what just happened.

The next night, you are staring at your laptop once more, unable to think of what to type about. Your days are uneventful, so mustering the inspiration becomes more difficult. You are sitting in your room with your door wide open. You haven’t heard Sherlock all day despite living in the same space. You think back to the night before, replaying his whole confession. “He really misses him,” you realize. Your thoughts of Sherlock and his whole situation sparks an idea. Without missing a beat, you start typing with incredibly ferocity and with little regard of the content. With sudden reflex you hear in the distance a door open and footsteps. You keep going, but eye outside your room for any hint of him. His footsteps stop immediately. You know exactly what he is doing and you stop typing. You exit your room to find Sherlock standing there in his robe and holding a cup of tea. He is standing just outside of your room, looking embarrassed as he tries to find an excuse for his behavior.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, so I’d thought I’d wait until you’re done,” Sherlock reasons. You smile, leaving him puzzled. He sees you walk back in your room, so he assumes that he should stay out of the way. Before he leaves, you come out holding his violin case.

“Please stay with me while I type. You playing the violin helps me think,” you admit.

“You’re just saying that because of last night,” Sherlock comments morosely. You place your hand on his cheek. He immediately looks on unfazed by your actions.

“Your playing really does relax me. Please stay,” you beg. He follows you inside. As you sit in front the computer. Sherlock takes out his violin to check the tuning. Surprised to see his music stand placed by your window, he smiles looking at his unfinished composition sitting on top of the stand. “Let me know if you want me to type slower. I don’t mind,” you propose.

“No, you’re fine, really,” Sherlock confesses. You start writing when you suddenly feel arms wrap around your body. Then something you never expect happens. His lips press against your cheek, causing you to blush bright red. His lips are soft. “Thank you,” Sherlock whispers in your ear as he lets go. He positions his fingers over the violin neck and starts playing. 

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” You push away the thought of kissing him back. He's not the affectionate type. He'll go back to his normal self in the morning, you reassure. The sudden rush of desire influences you to type rapidly from Sherlock's physical gesture and musical lull.

The next nights became more special. Sometimes he would join you in your room when work on your blog. Other times you hear him in his room, listening to his music through the wall. You understand what kind of sensory effect typing has on Sherlock, sometimes making a conscious effort to type slower than usual, to emulate more of John to Sherlock. This accidental revelation has given the two of you more peace than ever possible. Together, helping heal each other.


End file.
